


the pink suitcase

by mothwrites



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Queerplatonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:23:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothwrites/pseuds/mothwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fitz tightened his grip on the cardboard sign clutched in his right hand as the airport announced that the 8am London to California flight had just disembarked. He’d written “Jemma”, in big pink writing, and then, slightly smaller, “Simmons”, after he’d had the nervous, nagging thought that maybe just “Jemma” was too familiar for their first meeting in real life.<br/>(This is ridiculous, queerplatonic fluff.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the pink suitcase

jemma!: has signed in

leo_fitz: has signed in

 

(09:15) leo_fitz: so, i have to ask.

(09:15) leo_fitz: why the exclamation point?

 

(17:16) jemma!: is typing

(17:17)  ...

(17:18)  ...

 

(09:19) leo_fitz: jem?

 

(17:19) jemma!: i am EXCITED

(17: 20) jemma!: typing in the car is HARD

(17:20) jemma!: my dad is a bad driver. he’s slowed down now. thank god.

 

(09:21) leo_fitz: you’re on the way to the airport?

 

(17:23) jemma!: yes! we’re staying with my aunt tonight and i’m flying out in the morning. where are you? are you at lax yet?

 

(09:24) leo_fitz: just arrived, waiting for my lift. people keep staring at my luggage.

 

(17:25) jemma!: i told you not to go with the tartan, didn’t i? be excited! we’ll be seeing each in about...

(17:25) jemma!: 22 hours!

(17:26) jemma!: are you excited?

 

(09:27) leo_fitz: i can’t wait to meet you properly. i have to go, i think i can see my name on one of those signs.

 

(17:27) jemma!: ooh, good luck!

 

(09:28) fly safe! :)

 

*

Fitz tightened his grip on the cardboard sign clutched in his right hand as the airport announced that the 8am London to California flight had just disembarked. He’d written “Jemma”, in big pink writing, and then, slightly smaller, “Simmons”, after he’d had the nervous, nagging thought that maybe just “Jemma” was too familiar for their first meeting in real life. He’d worried about the pink, too: it was only after writing her name that he realised he didn’t actually know Jemma’s favourite colour, and not that it mattered for one simple sign, but he wanted to prove to himself, if not everyone watching, that they really _did_ know each other, and it wasn’t just an “internet thing” like his parents said, and that they _were_ friends, and-

“London to California flight now disembarking, London to California flight now disembarking.” Disturbed from his nervous thoughts, Leo sprang up at the sight of people starting to filter through the arrivals lounge, yawning and shuffling along with their luggage. A group of four older women walked past, then some businessmen, a family of five... he hoisted his sign up a little higher as he scanned the passers-by. He’d seen a few pictures of Jemma, of course, but now he was faced with the actual reality of seeing her, he could only remember fragments. Nice eyes. Long, brown hair, pretty smile. The passengers looking for signs all looked at him, and then carried on, before they were greeted with their own shouts and hugs. He wondered if Jemma would hug him, or if she’d just walk over while he stood there, sign in hand. He hoped she’d hug him.

At the end of the line, a woman in a smart shirt and pencil skirt spotted him. Her dark brown hair was tied up in a severe bun, and despite her being at least in her thirties, she hurried over to him, wheeling a brown leather suitcase behind her.

“Mr Bronson?” She asked in an American accent, when they were face to face.

“Uh, no, I think you have the wrong-”

“Ms Chapman?” A man’s voice called, and they both turned their head to see a slick businessman with a typed sign that read “Jemma Chapman”. She grinned at him.

“Sorry, kid.”

“No problem,” he squeaked out, trying to crane his head around her. When she left his line of vision, a younger woman stood on the walkway, biting her lip nervously and looking around. She twirled a lock of soft, shiny hair around her fingers, while her other hand gripped a bright pink suitcase.

“Jemma!”

The woman looked up, and her eyes found his. Slowly, a brilliant rose-pink smile spread across her face and Fitz found himself smiling too. Jemma started to walk towards him at a normal pace, at first, but sped up until she collided with him and his face was buried in her shoulder, smelling her perfume, the pink suitcase knocking into his hip. Like every cheesy movie he’d ever seen, he picked her up, listened to her delighted squeal and spun around, before he got dizzy and placed her down, as gently as he possibly could.

“Fitz,” she giggled.

“Simmons.” He was aware of people staring. “Uh. I made you a sign.” It looked a bit crumpled now, he thought forlornly, but she took it from him and hugged it to her chest.

“I love it. I didn’t think you’d be here!”

“Where else was I going to be? You’re awfully.. chipper, for someone who's just been on an eleven hour flight.”

“Oh, I’m sure the jet lag will kick in soon.” She stepped back, and they took a good, long look at each-other. She was beautiful, in a soft, fresh, uncomplicated kind of way, that made him think of newly-washed sheets, and pink lipstick, and white lab coats. Her gaze on him was just as searching, and he wondered what she was thinking; but for the first time, he wasn’t worried.

The spell was broken by the people milling around him, and one small child who had been watching them intently dove into his father’s coat as Jemma smiled and waved at him. The man chuckled and called over- “kiss her, already!”

The concept was alien. The surprise must have registered on his face, because Jemma broke into more peals of giggles, and he found himself pulled into another hug. The perfume was lavender, he noted absent-mindedly, as their audience dimmed down once more to an insignificant hum.  He felt her laugh, and reached up one hand up to twirl a lock of her soft hair around his finger. “I’m glad you like pink.”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing. It’s not important. I'm just saying," he mentioned casually, breaking the hug to take her suitcase into his own hands, "you can't laugh at me for _my_ luggage and then arrive with  _this_ monstrosity. I think it could blind a man."

"It's just a  _suitcase._ I won't have to use it again for  _ages._ You really don't have to help me unpack, you know."

"I'd like to. Unless you'd rather be alone?"

"Oh, not at all! Why would I want that?"

He looked at her, and then thought about how he'd tried to get food last night before he realised he didn't have the right currency yet, and how he still hadn't figured out how to use the payphone in the common room, and that none of his posters were up yet. 

"I have no idea. Shall we head off?” He wanted her to see the college, and the rooms and the parks and trees and students: and he wanted to see them too, afresh. He wanted to see their new home through her eyes instead of his, the lonely Scottish boy who had walked like a ghost through campus the night before. He had felt, sat in his new, sparse room, that he hadn’t really arrived yet. That some part of him was still in his house in Scotland, or on the plane, or wheeling his pink- no, tartan suitcase, out of his parents' car.

**Author's Note:**

> Because we need more queerplatonic Fitzsimmons.


End file.
